


Say My Name

by FalovesPa



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Sensuality, a bit NSFW, but not too bad, thorin before smaug attacked, thorin's maid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalovesPa/pseuds/FalovesPa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is from a fic request I got on my tumblr: averil-of-fairlea.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Say My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the most embarrassing way, Thorin finds out how his shy maid truly feels about him, but to her surprise, he reciprocates those feelings.

You entered Prince Thorin’s chamber without hesitation, expecting the big, splendid room to be empty, as the head maid so confidently told you it would be – “He’s in the bath, I’m sure of it!” she’d said — and closed the door behind you.

Panic coursed through your veins as you stepped lightly and swept your eyes across the floor, searching for your journal, the one with Thorin’s name written everywhere inside — the “i” dotted with a heart, his whole name inside a heart. There were rough sketches of his face, his rings, his beard, and more scribbles of his name on every page.

Everything you were much too timid to ever admit face-to-face, everything you mustn’t admit as a lowly maid, was in that journal.

You’d dusted his room earlier. This was the last place you’d had it.

“Looking for this?”

You jumped. Thorin stood leaning against the furthest stone wall from you, only a long plush towel wrapped around his waist, his upper body and hair soaked.

He held your open journal in his hands.

The combination shriek-howl that lunged from your mouth was enough to blow the top off the mountain. You slapped your hands against your mouth, stinging your face.

But Thorin didn’t budge. He merely glanced up at you, expressionless.

“Why is my name repeatedly written in this book?” he asked.

Through your cupped hands, you asked him to return it, but it sounded as if you were talking into a pillow.

Thorin lowered the journal and raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

You lowered your hands and let out a long, shaky breath. “Prince Thorin, please, I beg you, return my journal to me.”

In an instant, his expression went from hard and unfeeling to soft and caring. He appeared to regret embarrassing you. He pushed away from the wall and began walking in your direction.

You didn’t realize you were backing up until you bumped into a small wooden table.

“Oof!”

The table crashed to the ground. You got down on your knees and felt around for the tapered legs in an effort to prop the table upright, while your eyes stayed fixed on the approaching prince.

Thorin stopped close in front of you, his free hand extended to help you up. You stopped searching for the table legs.

Water dripped from his chest, the end of his beard braid and from his hair onto your neck. You flinched instinctively from the first few cool splashes.

Before you knew it, his large fingers — first outstretched to assist you back up — were now tenderly caressing your cheek. Something exploded inside you.

You placed your hand atop his and stroked his rough knuckles while you got lost in his eyes.

“Why is my name in your journal?” he asked again, his voice strained, as if he could barely speak.

There was absolutely no way to get out of this.

"I think of you, always."

"Why?" His voice was a mere whisper.

“Because I am in love with you, your grace.” 

You saw his breathing quicken.

“Say my name,” he pleaded softly.

“Prince –“

“Not my title. My name.”

“Thorin.”

It cascaded from your lips — sweetly, naturally. “I am in love with you, Thorin.”

As you said it over and over, he moaned and stroked your cheek more rhythmically. The gentle, slow rain from his glistening body continued to fall, and with your face turned completely up to him now, it dripped onto your lips.

You stopped speaking, closed your eyes and opened your mouth, catching the drops on the tip of your tongue as if they were fresh summer rain. You arched your head further back and let the water fall onto your neck and down the front of your uniform. Thorin watched you, mesmerized, smitten, hungry.

You opened your eyes when you felt something firm push through the plush towel fabric and poke your chin.

His chest was heaving and his sapphire eyes pierced you like daggers. Your gaze ran down his chest, and further down, to what had poked you…

But before you could reach it, someone began calling for you in the hall. Thorin snapped to his senses, pulled his fingers from yours and hastily handed you the journal. He took three unsteady steps back, then turned away from you, breathing in long and deep breaths, cooling himself down, unsure what to make of what had just happened.

There was a knock on the door. “Anyone there?”

"Yes!" he roared.

"Oh! My apologies, Prince Thorin. I thought a member of my staff was in there."

You heard her feet scurry away.

You stood, setting the table back on its legs as you did. You couldn’t decide if your little shower scene had looked ridiculous, skank, stupid, or all of the above. You ran your hands across your wet cheeks, reliving the last few highly inappropriate minutes and wondering what had come over you.

At that moment, he faced you again, and without speaking, gathered the long towel in his hand and approached you.

Your eyes grew wide and you sucked in nearly all the air in the room as the towel slipped down his left hip while he tugged on the right corner, exposing the perfect muscular curve to his backside. He gently wiped the water from your face and neck, down to your collarbone.

“We would be an improper match,” he said finally, his breath steamy and sweet. You heard an apology in his tone.

“Of course, my lord.”

“And my father would never allow it.”

You nodded. Now you just wanted to get out of there. Between the gushing journal, dripping-water tease and your confession, you just knew you’d be fired, with great fanfare and lots of witnesses. You envisioned the head maid happily drop-kicking you from the top of the Lonely Mountain.

When he was finished drying you, he moved away and opened the towel just a bit to pull the top edges firmly as he re-wrapped it around his waist. You caught the quickest glimpse of what was underneath, and it was enough to set your dreams on fire for the rest of your life.

“May I please take my leave, Prince Thorin? I’d like to die now,” you whispered.

You felt his soft smile on you before you saw it.

“You may leave,” he said, “but don’t die.”

You curtsied and headed for the door just as you heard the head maid calling for you again. Now you remembered: you were supposed to be polishing the silver.

“What are your duties at this hour tomorrow?” Thorin asked.

You stopped and faced him again, your brain taking a moment to recall the next day’s schedule.

“The kitch - no, the wine cellar.” Assuming I’m still employed, you thought.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall meet you there.”

Your breathing accelerated, along with your heartbeats. “May I ask why?”

At that point the calls for you were getting closer, but that didn’t stop Thorin from coming up to you, nearly nose to nose, and touching your cheek again.

“Because I need to explain why your name is in my book,” he said, “and why it’s engraved on my heart, and why it’s on my tongue when I’m alone, when there’s no towel to shield me…”


	2. The Sweeter the Juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin reveals his feelings during an encounter in the wine cellar.

“Don’t move.”

Of course, you moved.

After being in the wine cellar for thirty minutes, dusting and organizing the many rows of spirits, Thorin’s deep, commanding voice startled you, even though you’d been happily anticipating his promised visit all day.

You bobbled the wine in your hand, the one with the loose cork. Thankfully, you didn’t drop the bottle, but the dark, rich red liquid leaked onto your fingers. You placed it gingerly on the shelf, making a mental note to find a tighter cork. But you didn’t mind the fragrant smell on your fingers; it added to the tension and passion in the room.

Although your back was to him, you could feel his eyes on you. You stood still as he drew closer, your body already tingling, imagining his hands on you. Finally he was just a chest hair away, hot as the sun.

He put his left hand on your shoulder while the other ran through your hair. “This, how you are right now, reminds me of the first time I saw you, all those months ago. You were crying.” Both hands trailed down your arms now. “Do you remember the time I am talking about?”

You did. You were just outside the kitchen, hidden, you thought — in a nook that held extra plates and silverware in a large cupboard — weeping over how the head maid at the time was heaping more work on you than on anyone else, and how she constantly criticized you.

“You were so delicate, and yet so strong.” He leaned his face closer to you, his beard braid tickling the spot between your neck and shoulder. “You returned to the demands of that hateful Dwarf, not complaining once, not giving her trouble. Why did you endure that?”

“Because if I quit,” you said, “I couldn’t be near you.”

Thorin slipped his right index finger through the wide loop in the tie at the top of your uniform, gently pulling and twisting it round and round until he loosened it, the thin ribbons falling down over your chest. He traced the one hanging on your left side halfway down, driving you mad, then back up, repeating the motion several times.

“I wanted to comfort you that day,” he said, “but I am no good with tender words.”

“Oh, but you are,” you breathed. If only could see what his words were doing to you at this very second.

“So I relieved that tyrant of her duties.”

You gasped. You had wondered what had happened to her! He could see your cheeks rise as you smiled wide.

“Does it please you to know that?” he asked.

“Yes, your grace — Thorin.”

“Good.” He reached in front of you and lifted your wine-soaked hand to his lips. He brought your index finger into his mouth, and sucked it slowly, torturing you. A wave of pleasure broke in all your most sensitive spots. You were getting so, so…

“I recognize that fruit,” he said, finally releasing your wet finger.

“Yes, it’s the…ruby…p-port…” You hardly think, let alone speak.

He moved on to the back of your hand, speaking between leaving tiny pecks. “That port is one of our most overlooked wines, sometimes considered not good enough for royalty. But to me, it’s by far the tastiest.”

“I took you to prefer mead.” You summoned every bit of strength to produce words. You were on the edge. “The port is so — sweet.”

“You know what they say.” His hand moved down the front of your uniform, pressing, just below your belly. “The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice.”

A heavy, low moan tumbled from your mouth. You reared your head back, your hair falling over his shoulder as you let out quick, shallow breaths. Thorin steadied your body solidly against his, both arms wrapped around you now, kissing your neck while you shuddered. His feelings for you delve deeper, watching in amazement as you found your release from only his kisses and words and caresses.

“Now do you know that I am in love with you? That I write your name on bound parchment intended for laws and histories, that I whisper your name in the night as I imagine you under me?” His words melted into your skin.

“Improper match,” you groaned, reminding him – and you – of his own words, which were the truth. 

“I will fight whomever I must to have you.”

You couldn’t stand another second of not looking at him. You spun around and he was ready, so ready to taste your lips.

His kiss was fierce, hot, and aggressive, but you gave just as powerfully as you received - probing and tasting and losing yourself in his mouth until you both were absolutely breathless.


	3. The Only One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your co-workers share some wild, half-true tales about Thorin's love life.

Never in your wildest dreams – and they were wild, all right – had you imagined loving Thorin would be so all-consuming.

His love was sweeter than the ruby wine, more refreshing than the cool water that dripped from his body during your first encounter. You never knew you could feel as adored and desired as you did in his arms.

As busy as he always was, he made time to be with you, talk with you, to look into your eyes.

He committed your daily duties to memory and surprised you with kisses to your neck when he was certain you would be alone.

One afternoon in his chamber, as you finished some unnecessary dusting of his ebony wood wardrobe, he came up behind you and placed something around your neck. You looked down to see a small but breathtaking red oval ruby encased in an elaborate frame hanging from a silver chain.

“It belonged to my mother,” Thorin said, closing the clasp.

“I couldn’t possibly accept this!” you cried.

“Of course you can. It should be around the neck of a queen.”

You turned around slowly and gave him a long, hard, dubious stare.

“I am not a queen. I will never be a queen. I’m a servant. The hired help.”

“You’re my love - my very own, living breathing ruby.” He ran his index finger over the jewel. “Soon everyone will know, and no one will stop us.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, your love for him even deeper when he spoke such nonsense. 

There was no way in the world his father or grandfather would ever give their blessing to such a union, and there was no way you could allow him to lose everything over you.

The right thing to do was leave, but as much as you told yourself this, and as many times as you resolved to quit and never return, you couldn’t do it.

You thanked him for the necklace and told him you would always cherish it, just as you would always cherish him.

Over the next several days, you were careful not to wear the necklace when you were on duty – only at home. You had definitely learned your lesson about keeping your secrets secure after you accidentally left your journal in Thorin’s room.

One morning, following a particularly grueling work day, you overslept. You got dressed and out quickly, forgetting about the red stone still dangling from your neck.

It was another dusting day and if you were lucky, Thorin would be in his chamber when you stopped by. But when you arrived, Sylvi, the head maid, said the cooks needed all hands on deck to help prepare the feast for King Thranduil and the assembly of Elves he was bringing from Mirkwood.

You were sitting at the round wooden table in the large kitchen, with a combination of cooks, maids and other help, trimming the ends off a bunch of carrots, when Sylvi gazed below your chin and said, “Oh, that’s so lovely!”

Everyone else’s eyes followed, zeroing in on your neck. The ruby!

You placed the knife on the table and slapped your hand over the jewel, trying to hide it much too late. When you realized you were bringing more attention to yourself, you removed your hand, thanked Sylvi politely, and tried to calmly resume your work. You felt as if you were on display.

“Only one person could have given you that!” said the butcher who stood across from the table at a large block, about to slice a great slab of pork.

“Actually,” the pastry chef chimed in, “it could have been King Thror, or Thrain, or Prince Frerin, or Princess Dis –”

“But we all know who it was!” a serving girl said, smiling slyly as she cut the skin off a cucumber.

Everyone began giggling. Then, as if on a silent count of three, they all said, “Prince Thorin!”

You were still on display, now with your mouth open, completely gobsmacked, confused, with hurt and disbelief quickly creeping into the mix.

“But I must say, I’ve never seen him give a gift quite so beautiful before,” Sylvi remarked.

“Yes, it’s exquisite,” the chief cook said. The others around the table nodded. “You must have made quite an impression on him, huh lass?’

“Yeah, he must have really liked the way she polished his scepter,” a cup bearer snickered.

More cackling. All their words were flowing together, mixing, cooking up a big stew of mocking.

“Hey, I gave that scepter a high-gloss spit shine last year,” said the scullery maid, “and all I got was a flimsy gold bracelet!”

They kept chattering and laughing and telling grossly exaggerated, and in most cases, made-up, tales of escapades with Thorin as a look of utter distress and humiliation painted your face. Your hands began to shake, and you couldn’t hold on to the knife or the carrots any longer.

You slid off your seat, placed the carrot-filled bowl and the knife on the table, and excused yourself.

“Is it time for another polishing, dear?” someone called.

You wobbled out of the room, reaching for the wall for support. You heard Sylvi whisper “Shhhh! Can’t you see she’s upset?’ and someone else say, “She really thought she was the only one!” as you rounded the corner.

You found the small nook where you’d cried your heart out months ago, where Thorin said he first saw you. You held onto the large cupboard, lowered your head to your chest and tried to let the pain pass without sobbing, but it wasn’t possible.


	4. Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin tells you the truth about his past, and assures you that you are his future.

Thorin was ready pounce on you when you came through his door. He hadn’t seen you in nearly three days due to the Elves’ visit, and he wanted more than anything to see your smile and taste your lips.

He had come to like the rarely seen playful nature you brought out in him. He hid behind the door at just the right time, knowing that you were always punctual. As soon as the heavy wood creaked open, he leaped forward and planted his mouth on – Sylvi’s neck.

“What the!” the head maid shrieked, whipping around.

Bewildered, Thorin held his hands up for a second, his eyes large and fierce.

“What are you doing here, Sylvi?!”

She rolled her eyes back and clutched her heaving chest, trying to catch her breath.

“Heavens above!” she said, fanning herself. “I’m just here to tidy up, Prince Thorin.”

“But, where is….”

“Oh, she asked to do my job the last couple of days.”

Thorin was confused. “And tomorrow?”

She paused briefly before telling him the rest, nervous about how he would react.

“Today is her last day, my lord.”

Thorin didn’t move. He asked Sylvi to repeat herself, and she said it again. You were to begin your duties as a mother’s helper in Dale tomorrow, a job she helped you procure.

“What prompted this?” Thorin demanded as he found his boots and sat on the edge of the bed to put them on.

“I think she was hurt by…” Sylvi hesitated.

“WHO HURT HER?”

Sylvi felt as if she were about to be executed.

“The staff was just teasing her a little about the pretty necklace.” Sylvi pointed to his pillow, where he hadn’t looked before, where the ruby lay.

"Teasing! How so?"

Sylvi squirmed. She wasn’t accustomed to speaking with Thorin about anything except tidying up, and even the length of those few conversations, combined, amounted to just eight seconds.

“We joked about how you must have liked her, er….talents to give her something so lovely,” she said sheepishly.

“Her ‘talents’? What in Durin’s name are you talking about?”

She gulped, wondering how she got in this pickle. “We shared some of your, uh…your penchant for…”

Thorin had his boots on now and sauntered up to Sylvi slowly and calmly, but with fire and ice in his eyes.

“You will tell me exactly what was said to her, and where she is. Right. Now.”

*******

You were alone in the laundry, your least favorite assignment because it was so hot in there with all the steaming basins of water and myriad clothing and sheets that got so heavy when wet. But you were thankful that the hard work kept you preoccupied, and that this was your last day to do it in Erebor. Tomorrow you would start over, keeping your love for Thorin only in your journal, as you should have all along.

You were wringing a bed sheet with all your might into the basin. A mix of dry and damp sheets that had slipped from the hanging rack behind you lay near your feet. Your forehead was damp with sweat and your uniform soaked with wash water.

Suddenly a shining red oval descended before your face, resting coolly on your hot skin just above your neckline. Thorin’s broad chest was against your back, as before, in the wine cellar.

“This is yours,” he said.

Your jaw began to quiver. The last time you saw the necklace was when you left it in his room.

“It belongs in your family.”

“As do you.” He placed his hands on your shoulders, turned you to face him, and plunged into your mouth as he gripped you to him. You welcomed it, all of it and all of him, in spite of yourself. 

He pulled back, panting, and saw you glancing nervously at the door. He assured you it was locked and Sylvi was not to allow anyone access.

Then he said, “Some wild tales have been spun about my love affairs,” he said. “But I will tell you the truth.”

“Those are private matters that are of no business to the help.”

He ran a finger along your lower lip. “Do you truly believe that’s what you are to me?”

"That’s what I am to the world.”

“Do you love the world, or do you love me?”

Your brain sounded an alarm. Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer…

“You.”

Thorin smiled so lovingly, and held your face in his hands so tenderly, you forgot your plans to leave, your sweat, even the ninnies and their jokes.

He kept his eyes on yours as he spoke. “I have made mistakes, and there is a shred of accuracy to what you heard, but not much.” He took a deep breath.

"I became involved with my sister’s lady-in-waiting two years ago, and yes, I showered her with gifts. But it ended very, very badly. She’s no longer here. There was no love between us, nothing of what I feel for you.”

You melted, and he sighed, seeming less comfortable with sharing the next story.

“And last year, with the scullery maid: I did not lay with her, but she… pleasured me. Once. It was a dalliance born of loneliness and weakness and foolishness, and I have no one to blame but myself.”

He kissed your forehead. “Don’t leave because of my past errors in judgment, real or rumored.”

You felt awful. You were in no way, shape, or form angry with Thorin for having his “scepter polished” by the gals he mentioned or anyone else. He was a red-blooded Dwarf who could have whomever he desired. 

You were angry at yourself for thinking this could ever work, for letting it get as far as it did.

“And the gifts to all the others,” he said, “they were not romantic. Every member of the staff gets gifts on their birthdays. That was a tradition started by my mother, continued by my sister, who threatened my brother and me within an inch of our lives if we didn’t participate. Nothing more. I don’t know how these stories got so blown out of proportion.”

Because you’re gorgeous, you thought to yourself. Because you’re a prince, the heir to the throne. Because your lovers probably went on and on about how incredible you were.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said. “Please let me go, so you can be the King you were born to be, and get all the honor you deserve.”

He just looked at you for what seemed like an hour, then stroked your cheek softly as he did during your first encounter.

“Do you not also deserve honor?”

He slid his hands down your waist as he got down on his knees and leaned his face against your body, kissing you through the wet uniform as your perspiration and tears fell on him like a blessing.

"You have my honor, and my love."

His hands wandered down your curves, and your fingers twisted into in his mane as he kissed and licked and held his living, breathing ruby for dear life.

You both knew this wasn’t wise, that it would be contested, ridiculed, forbidden.

And you knew, deep, deep down, that you would be torn apart, either by something as fiery as your passion or as cold as the icy disapproval soon coming your way. You knew that one day, you would be on that list of past loves. An error in judgment. An improper match.

Love was not enough.

But you told yourselves it was as you stayed wrapped together through the night atop the sheets, forgetting the world and its many harsh truths.


End file.
